


The Good Doctor

by LotteLenya



Series: The Good Doctor [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Brothers, Bullying, Doctor John Watson, Fights, Hurt/Comfort, Lisp, M/M, Panic Attacks, Possibly Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotteLenya/pseuds/LotteLenya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you ever put your hands on Sherlock again, I will be personally responsible for breaking your nose. Do. You. Understand?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Doctor

Before John even slipped the key into the keyhole he had a suspicious feeling in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed it down, expecting that Sherlock had just done another disruptive experiment or set something on fire again. He switched the shopping to his good arm, because his shoulder was acting up again, as he walked up the stairs. The groceries were abandoned on the landing when John heard a violent smash and grunt come from inside his flat. 

“Sherlock?” John shouted, furiously crashing into the living room with his hands already balled into fists. 

He barged in just in time to see a vase smash to the floor as an attacker pulled his arm back to land another blow to Sherlock’s ribs, letting loose a miserable groan from the detective. Without assessing the situation further, John sprinted at the attacker and tackled him off of Sherlock, pinning his arm behind his back and slamming the man’s chest into the hardwood. 

“Ugh,” Sherlock moaned, leaning up on his elbows. 

Breathing hard, and digging his knee into his captor, realization dawned on the doctor. 

“Mycroft?” John said through his grit teeth. 

“Yes, Doctor,” Mycroft said a little breathlessly, “If you’d be so kind…”

John released him and got to his feet quickly, making himself dizzy. He was sweating in the cool flat and his breath came out shakily. Mycroft lifted himself gracefully, even though his suit was ruffled, torn, and splattered with blood that had clearly dripped from his bruised nose. Sherlock was standing with some effort, and leaning on the desk, breathing hard. His mouth and teeth were covered in blood and he had a small cut on his cheekbone. His arm wrapped precariously around his ribs. 

“I thought…and you were just…” John started, but found that it was becoming increasingly difficult to get words out in between his frantic breathing. 

Sherlock saw the signs of a panic attack before John did and came forward with a wince to take hold of John’s arm. 

“I’m, we’re sorry, John. I’m fine,” Sherlock said resolutely, “I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m fine.”

John’s eyes were flitting back and forth and a furrow marred his brow. His head was shaking lightly in outrage. 

“Jesus…” he pushed Sherlock back ignoring the pained grunt as Sherlock clutched his ribs again, and headed towards the bathroom, slamming the door and dropping to his knees as soon as it was closed. He curled into himself and gulped in large breaths of air, trying to will the panic attack away. He clenched his fists and released them again and again until a sharp pain shook him from his panic. His focus turned to the scrapes on his forearm and what appeared to be a sizable piece of glass jutting out and leaking blood steadily. He hadn’t even noticed. 

“John? I’m coming in,” Sherlock said defiantly. 

John couldn’t respond, so he just scooted back so he was sitting against the tub holding his arm atop his knee. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything at first, just hovered in the doorway with his arm still wrapped tightly around his ribs. Mycroft stood further back over Sherlock’s shoulder holding a flannel to his nose and looking pensive. 

“What should I do? John?” Sherlock knelt in front of his friend. 

John blinked owlishly at him and shook his head, trying so very hard to focus on the here and now. He willed away the Afghan desserts and hopelessness, he clenched his fist to let the pain bring him back further still. 

“John, don’t!” Sherlock said grabbing John’s hand and uncurling his fingers as the blood dripped more profusely, “What do I do? John, I need you to tell me.” Sherlock for all his wisdom sounded shaken and unsure. 

John looked at the glass, assessing with a seasoned glance, he knew it should get stitches. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Sherlock sheepishly wrapped his fingers around John’s wrist and pet his pulse point softly with his thumb, until it came under control. 

“Get my kit, above the sink,” John spoke softly with a dry throat. 

Sherlock had grabbed it in a split second, opened it, and manned himself with a handful of gauze. 

“I’ll…” John gestured to the glass shard, “And then you…” he gestured towards the gauze, but his good hand was shaking. 

“Let me,” Sherlock said, “Turn your head away.”

John took a deep breath and did as he was told, fisting his shaking hand in the denim of his trousers.

“On three,” Sherlock said and held John’s arm very still, “One-“ 

Sherlock pulled the glass out, tossing it in the sink, and held the gauze to the wound so quickly that John was still in the middle of his pain fueled gasp when Sherlock was hushing him. 

“It’s ok, you’re ok. I’m sorry, John,” the sincerity in Sherlock’s voice unnerved John and he looked into those mysterious eyes. 

“You’ll need more,” John said, testing his good hand and then shoving it under his thigh in failure when it continued it’s wretched shaking. 

Sherlock grabbed another stack of gauze and lay pressure on the wound, adding a layer of tape when the bleeding didn’t seep through. Relieved that they wouldn’t have to take a trip to the A&E tonight, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. 

“You’re shivering,” Sherlock said, “Let’s get off the floor. Mycroft?”

Mycroft was instantly at Sherlock’s side.

The two men hoisted John gently from the floor and escorted him to the couch, which, John realized belatedly, was a tad ironic, considering they were the ones that had just beat the shit of each other. John huffed a distressing laugh, and Mycroft raised a distinguished eyebrow, while Sherlock scrunched his forehead delicately in confusion. 

“Get my kit and sit down with me,” John said once he was seated on the couch and the shaking in his hand had subdued to a mild tremble. 

Sherlock at once went to retrieve the kit and Mycroft moved to sit on the other side of the room. 

“No, you too. Come back here you great idiot,” he said forcefully. 

Mycroft looked for a moment as though he was about to make a swift exit, but instead came and sat down on the sofa a foot from John. Sherlock returned quickly and sat on  
the other side, considerably closer. John took a breath and the kit from Sherlock’s hands. 

“What was it then?” John turned towards Mycroft as he pulled some more gauze and an ice pack from the kit, snapping it and massaging the contents. “What did he say?”

Mycroft nearly smirked, “Oh, you know my brother.”

The heart of the British government cringed as John pressed the ice pack against his nose, “Put your head back.”

Mycroft reluctantly did as he was told and let his head fall against the back of the couch. 

“I merely commented on the fact that Mycroft keepths Anthea on ath a cover for the fact that he is obviouthly-“ Sherlock lisped as John stuck the gauze between his lip and teeth. 

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John interrupted, but it was lacking any force. 

Still, Sherlock closed his mouth, holding the gauze in place. 

“Move your arm and lean back,” John instructed as he rolled up his sleeves and turned towards his battered friend.

Sherlock lowered his eyes, “Mycroft is not thtrong enough to break my ribth.”

“Stop talking,” John removed the reddened gauze and replaced it with another piece that he had soaked in alcohol. 

Sherlock gripped the edge of the sofa and slammed his eyes shut as it made contact with his cut lip. 

“Sorry,” John said and then, “Take a deep breath.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked nervously down at John, taking the breath asked of him. John nodded tightly, “No pain?”

Sherlock shook his head, but John saw the way the muscles in his biceps tightened on the inhale. 

“Again then,” John said. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply and flinched again, adding, “It’th not that bad.”

Mycroft scoffed underneath his ice pack, and Sherlock growled at him. 

“Behave,” John said severely as he unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt. 

Sherlock stiffened and a flush crept up from his chest into his notable cheekbones as John moved with clinical precision to the bottom button. John would have had to be  
blind not to notice, but that didn’t stop him. John shook his head at the already forming bruises along Sherlock’s left ribcage. 

“Bullies, the both of you,” John muttered and neither brother had the heart to comment, but Mycroft shifted in a way that John interpreted as smug defiance.

John moved his hands along Sherlock’s ribs gently but firmly, and Sherlock squirmed in pain and took shallow breaths. 

“Stop wriggling or I’ll get Mycroft to hold you down again,” John said looking up at Sherlock.

“Thorry,” Sherlock said and then frustratingly snatched the gauze from his lip and added quietly, sparing a glance at Mycroft who had closed his eyes, “It hurts.”

John softened and laid a hand on Sherlock’s unmarred ribs, petting gently, “I know, but it’s this or I take you to A&E for x-rays and I know how much you despise the hospital.”

Sherlock thought about this a moment, glancing between John’s hands and the bandaged cut on his arm. 

“Does it need stitches? If you have to go, I’ll go with you,” Sherlock sounded sheepish and unsure and it very nearly broke John’s heart. 

“No, it’s quite all right,” John said, almost believing himself.

“All right,” Sherlock said and glanced at Mycroft again, “Any time you want to piss the hell off Mycroft, there’s the door.”

“No, you’re not going anywhere until I see if your nose is broken,” John said swinging around and facing Mycroft who hadn’t bothered to open his eyes. 

“My car is on the way- make it quick, Doctor,” Mycroft said, resolutely ignoring Sherlock. 

John sighed and went back to Sherlock’s ribs. He pressed down gently and Sherlock did his best to avoid flinching, but couldn’t stop the flush that ran up into his cheeks again at John’s touch. Mycroft opened one eye and peered at Sherlock out from under the ice pack. He slyly grinned. 

“Nothing’s broken, luckily,” John said spitefully turning towards Mycroft, leaving Sherlock to button his own shirt back up.

John removed the ice pack from Mycroft’s nose less than gently, “And just what are you grinning at Mycroft?”

Sherlock quickly turned towards his brother at John’s question, “Oh, no-nothing,” he flinched as John set his thumbs against Mycroft’s bruised nose, “Nothing at all.”

John sighed and shook his head as he felt meticulously around Mycroft’s nose and eye sockets for breaks or tenderness. Mycroft stole himself firmly and avoided so much as a single grunt of pain. 

“Lucky that,” John said getting to his feet, “You’ve managed to avoid breaking one another. Stand up, Mycroft.”

“Doctor Watson?” Mycroft said with confusion in his voice.

John fisted Mycroft’s posh shirt with both hands and dragged him to standing, ignoring the stinging pain in his arm at the motion. Mycroft was on his toes, struggling to look dignified as the smaller man leaned in close. Sherlock watched with fascination and utter joy in his eyes. 

“If you ever put your hands on Sherlock again, I will be personally responsible for breaking your nose. Do. You. Understand?” John said through grit teeth, letting all the rage that he had pushed down in favor of tending to the two brother’s seep into his words.

“Understood, Doctor,” Mycroft said and stumbled gracelessly as John released him and shoved him towards the door. 

Mycroft straightened, and turned towards Sherlock, “Goodbye, dear brother.”

“A pleasure, as always,” Sherlock spat sarcastically, dislodging his gauze. 

When Mycroft had closed the door behind him Sherlock expected to see the tension release from John’s shoulders, but instead he found that tense soldier turn his attention towards Sherlock, who shrunk further into the couch cushions. 

“And you –“ John started, resisting the urge to pull Sherlock up and rattle his ribs.

“I’m sorry, John. I am,” Sherlock said quickly, “You’re bleeding again.”

“Nice try, Sherlock,” John said still approaching. 

Sherlock grabbed his wrist and gestured with his eyes towards the bandaged wound before John could resist or decline.

“I’ll…shall I…I’ll,” Sherlock hesitated before taking the wet gauze from John’s arm and replacing it with a haphazard handful from the first aid kit. 

John sat down, exhausted next to Sherlock, and let the detective wrap his arm up again. 

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said again, which had to have been a record. 

John looked into those green eyes and Sherlock registered the rage dissipating so he kept his face as open and sincere as he could, hoping John knew that only he got to see behind the mask. 

“So, you pissed him off, and he took a swing?”

Sherlock blinked and sat back, wincing at the pain in his ribs.

“I was just winding him up. It certainly wasn’t the first time. But compounded with the fact that he’s in the middle of an international crisis, he lost his composure, shall we say.”

John had leaned back as well, shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock. He looked Sherlock up and down once and snorted to himself. Sherlock scrunched his forehead. 

“He kicked your arse. I would have put my money on you in a fight.”

“He did no such thing! I nearly broke his nose!” Sherlock shouted indignantly. 

John indulgently poked Sherlock in the ribs, to a slight shriek from the detective. 

“Kicked your arse,” John repeated. 

Sherlock pouted, “I certainly can’t help that he has fat fists and a surly demeanor.”

John snorted again and more of the tension released from his neck. 

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked quietly. 

John closed his eyes and nodded. 

“As long as you are.”


End file.
